


Drowning

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Co-Dependency, Drowning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock-centric, Sickfic, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes 17 minutes to drown.</p><p>He can’t find John, doesn’t know where he is and he’s not sure how long he’s been gone, but he’s fairly certain that it’s been more than 17 minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning

 

 

John doesn’t see that Sherlock is drowning.

  
They’re on good terms, it’s not exactly how it was, but it likely never will be, and he’s okay with that because it’s still good and it still works.  


Sherlock is better with John around and everyone knows it. Except perhaps John.

  
He never did observe.

  
John’s busy with the clinic and Sherlock is positively inundated with cases, since the news of his resurrection broke his inbox has been bursting. Most of it is trivial, requests for interviews, the public being curious, mind-numbingly dull cases, but most of the initial flurry has wound down and there’s plenty that look promising.

  
John comes on cases when he can, which is only about 67% of the time. It’s unsatisfying and Sherlock misses him when he doesn’t come along, it’s not the same. He has no one to giggle inappropriately with, doesn’t even see the point in laughing if he’s not laughing with John. Lestrade doesn’t think it’s funny; he just gives him odd looks.   


They all seem to pity him, something he resents, they’re always cautiously gentle with him at crime scenes when John’s too busy and he’s alone. It feels like they’re treading on eggshells, skirting around him and even _Donovan_ does it. He fervently wishes she’d just glower and call him a freak like she normally does, them treating him differently makes the John shaped hole at his side more pronounced. On these days Lestrade looks sad, like he wants to say something. So he always makes a point to be deliberately more clinical and sharp to snap them out of it, but that just seems to make it worse.

  
Sherlock doesn’t see why John can’t just quit and spend his time and focus on the cases with Sherlock, seeing as the locum work is clearly boring him to death, and John would definitely prefer it. He’s voiced this numerous times but John doesn’t bite.

  
‘Maybe. Give it time,’ he suggests and Sherlock thinks about two years, four months and three agonising days. That seems ample enough time to say the least, far more than necessary. But he doesn’t say this because it’s still a bit of a sore spot, and they’ve both had enough of arguing about it.

  
Instead he gets back at him in petty ways, he hides all of John’s socks to make him late for work, plays raucously on the violin two hours before John has to get up for 3 consecutive days until John screams at him. He grows mould cultures on the bread, experiments in the jam, and he drinks all the milk.

  
John is exasperated and Sherlock knows he’s successfully driving him up the wall, but he doesn’t retaliate.

  
He catches Sherlock circumventing the drinking part; electing to empty the milk straight down the drain instead. Of course he complains, and they grapple like children for the carton until it buckles and milk spurts all over the kitchen. John swears and tells him to clean it up while he gets changed, but he’s fighting to keep the fond smile off his face and his eyes are laughing.

  
Sherlock doesn’t clean up the milk, and he doesn’t go to Tesco’s either.

  
On days when he has nothing on and John is out, he curls up on the sofa and concentrates on staying afloat until he gets home.

  
John brushes right by and he doesn’t see it because he neglects to look in the first place.

  
Sherlock is drowning in old pain, memories, loneliness, and words left unsaid.

  
John doesn’t know. John seems to have recovered from it all nicely. It isn’t deliberate, he’s not being apathetic, if he saw that something was wrong, he’d say something, he always does when it’s Sherlock, always strives to make it better in any way he can.

  
It just hasn’t occurred to him that Sherlock is not okay.

  
Maybe subconsciously he doesn’t want to look, and that’s alright because most of the time Sherlock’s still undecided about letting him.

  
Right now though he _does_ want him to know, and he wants John to know _badly_. Sherlock wants to fist his hands in John’s shirt front, tell him everything and scream for help. He needs John to tell him that everything will be alright, because it’s not; it’s worse than usual and he could really use a life ring.

  
Drowning is quick and silent.

  
It takes 17 minutes to drown.

  
The average person can hold their breath for 3-4 minutes, then the hypoxia will causes loss of consciousness in 2-3 minutes, whereupon the drowning person will reflexively inhale, asphyxiate, and be dead in 5-10 minutes.

  
There’s margin for error and he’s far from average, but statistically he has a maximum of 17 minutes to live, and given the fact that Sherlock is a smoker, that might cut his time down dramatically.

  
He can’t find John, doesn’t know where he is and he’s not sure how long he’s been gone, but he’s fairly certain that it’s been more than 17 minutes.

  
He never expected to drown in his living room.

  
~

  
A bag clunks to the floor and John puts the kettle on.

  
That was a long 17 minutes.

  
He still can’t seem to breathe properly.

  
John greets him tiredly and Sherlock tries to respond but his throat feels raw from the water and he coughs wetly.

  
“Why didn’t you phone me and tell me you were sick?” John frowns at him.

  
Ah, he evaluates his condition factoring in John’s insight, self-diagnosis: upper respiratory infection, which explains a lot.

  
Sherlock couldn’t find his mobile when he was looking for John so he’d assumed that it sank, which he explains through congested airways. John’s brows draw closer together. He’s starting to look uneasy. Sherlock’s not sure what he said wrong.

  
“When exactly did you start feeling unwell?” John asks it too slowly, like he thinks Sherlock is somehow mentally impaired, it’s insulting.

  
“You offered me a sandwich, but I wasn’t hungry.” He wasn’t hungry because the developing fever had begun to kill his appetite.

  
“That was three days ago!” John is staring at him like he’s gone mad, well, madder than usual.

  
Well that explained the suitcase on the landing, the stiff posture that comes from sleeping on a couch, and the stressed rings of purple under his eyes. Conclusion; John had been to visit his sister.

  
Sherlock didn’t remember John leaving, but he’d known John was missing when he noticed the vital air he needed becoming thicker and more humid in his absence, harder to breathe.

  
Breathing is less boring when you’re drowning.

  
“But you hate Harry?” Sherlock never understands why John goes to see her.  


He always came back in a bad mood after visiting her, they never got along with one another, and a thoroughly unpleasant time was had by all, Sherlock included.

  
John resented her addiction, following in the footsteps of their father, too many broken promises and downward spirals. Repetition was tedious and John had little patience or sympathy for her anymore. She resented John’s help and her stubborn defensiveness worn him down.

  
He invariably came back early following a heated argument and was terrible company for the next few days as a result, Sherlock found it exhausting and he was just a third party.

  
“Sherlock! She’s my sister,” John admonishes.

  
Predictably irritable.

  
“So?”

  
“I do _not_ hate her.” John seethes, which doesn’t really support his argument as he’s only angry in the first place because of her.

  
“You hate going to _see_ her.” Sherlock amends.

  
John deflates, “It’s just…complicated is all.”

  
The deafening silence that follows is broken when Sherlock has an intense coughing fit, and he really _might_ be drowning.

  
“Christ Sherlock,” John slips back into the role of care-giver seamlessly, helping Sherlock to struggle upright to clear his obstructed lungs.

  
“God, it’s in your chest, how did this happen so fast?” John’s teeth are worrying his bottom lip and everything seems a bit fuzzy.

  
Sherlock laughs wetly, and it sounds a bit delirious even to him.

  
_“Maybe because I left the better part of my spleen in Eastern Europe?”_

  
He won’t remember having said it, that or the grim expression he receives in return.

  
~

  
In the morning his fever has finally broken and his head feels clearer. He watches the lines around John’s eyes and mouth smooth over when he shuffles into the kitchen; infected and cross about it.

  
“You have to stop doing this to me,” John sighs, swiping a hand over his forehead. He looks like he hasn’t slept.

  
“Do I?” Sherlock mutters disagreeably.   


There’s a high possibility that his virus has contaminated all of his ongoing experiments and he’s going to have to start from scratch. The last three days are mostly a blur, what did he even _do_? Plus he has the headache from hell, but at least he can breathe easier with John in such close proximity.

  
He dimly registers that John was booked in to the clinic today, and counts that as a small victory.

  
“Yeah, you really do, because I swear every time something like this happens, I feel like I’m holding my damn breath.”

  
John doesn’t understand why this is so funny.

  
  



End file.
